I gave myself four days of presence at the 2024 Masters golf tournament. I should really use the word “granted” instead “gave” which gets at the largesse of the gift as if granted by a genie.
In the past, I was able to be on the grounds in Augusta. With mobility issues, (upward and bodily) I have not been able to go in the last few years. But CBS and the Golf Channel afforded me actually better viewing, though I miss the ambiance of Augusta National, the roar of the gallery, the smell of the flora, and the taste of pimento cheese sandwiches.
I began going when I was a young boy with my dad who shared his love of the game early. It was magical to be on the scene, somewhat like being on a movie set. The grounds, the trees, the azaleas, the green grass perfectly manicured were impressive, even to a child. Later, as a teenager, I would fly down for the day with my Delta friend, Doug Dunn, landing in a bevy of private planes, notably Arnold Palmer’s Lear jet. And we were on our own, deciding how to spend our time in this fairyland of golf.
I remember that early on, the players parked right near the clubhouse and practice area. They would drive down Magnolia Lane, park their courtesy Cadillacs, unload their clubs, and head to the locker room. For me, that was “prime time” to get autographs from these legends of golf. Not only Arnie, Gary, and Jack, but Sam Snead, Byron Nelson and Gene Sarazen who showed up every Spring. It was amazing to actually see these heroes of mine in the flesh.
The practice range in those days was right in front of the clubhouse. Players would hit shots while the local caddies would shag the balls as they descended with their appropriately named “shag bag”. When I got my first shag bag of my own with beat-up Titleists and sparkling white rocks known as Trophy balls, I knew that I had arrived. I was a golfer.
In those days, all players had to use the local caddies, who had invaluable knowledge of the course and particularly of the vexing tilt-a-whirl greens. These caddies brought color to the event that I miss, most staying with the same player throughout his years playing at the Masters. Now, players use their own caddies who are a part of their professional entourage. It’s one of the few traditions that Augusta National has let go, and one that I miss. When I’ve have been able to play at Augusta, the caddies were unbelievable in terms of local knowledge and wisdom, not to mention the color of their personalities.
Also, there was a practice green where people could practice their shots from the sand trap. One memory that is laser-etched in my memory was watching Arnold Palmer practicing his sand shot. He dropped several balls in the sand trap, proceeded to line up his shot, make a sharply descending blow behind the ball, blasting said ball onto the green toward the hole, marked by a pin. On this occasion, as an early teen, I was focusing on his technique, trying to learn by obseervation. Each time, the ball flew out of the trap, but came up about three feet short, something a weekend golfer would kill for. After many tries with the same result, the gallery and I watched the inimitable Arnie climb out of the trap and go to his golf bag, He dug inside of one of the cavernous side pockets and pulled out a package that contained a new leather grip. He quickly took the old grip off using a utility knife, applied some tape and glue, rewrapped the sand wedge with a new grip. His dad was a club golf pro so he knew the drill. He then descended into the trap, lined up his shot, took his swing, hitting the shot three feet short of the pin as the balll rolled forward into the hole. The gallery erupted with cheers, and Arnie, the ultimate entertainer turned to us and said, “That old grip just didn’t feel quite right.” and we nodded in agreement with the original King of the Masters. I was able to recount the story to Mr. Palmer years later, and he just grinned that famous world-winning grin.
The practice area was a world in and of itself. I could have spent my entire day there but the course calls. When you walk the eighteen holes of Augusta, you sense that you are in the Cathedral of golf, built by it’s bishop, Bobby Jones. Originally a plant and tree nursery, Bobby Jones bought the land and began to design and build this Olympus of the golf gods, opening the club for play in 1932. The course was designed by Jones and Alister MacKenzie. In 1934, the first Masters tournamennt was held. It’s worth noting that Jones was originally opposesd to the name “Masters” for obvious reasons. Clifford Roberts, the other founder of the club, prevailed and the Masters is viewed as one of the four major championships in the world of golf.
The week at the Masters began with practice rounds on Monday and Tuesday. The access to players is pretty loose, and the groupings of players more random. I was hit by a practice ball on the bounce by Rory McIlroy as he tried to hit the green in two on the par 5 fifteenth hole. It was at one of his first Masters and he looked rather boyish as he apologized to me. And there’s the sporty “skip the ball across the pond” challenge on the par 3 #16, as the crowd cheers and moans as each golfer gives it his best college try. Every so often, someone holes out, and the place goes nuts. It feels a bit circus-like as these golf gladiators are preparing for battle and trying to assuage their nerves.
Wednesday is unique with an abbreviated practice time in the morning, followed by the Par 3 competition. There are nine holes within the property that are short par threes. This is the day for the golfers to bring out their wives and kids to serve as caddies. There is a festive mood and the kids become the stars of the show. But the specter of the coming competition is looming.
Thursday begins the actual competition, with the legends of golf beginning the play by teeing off on hole #1. For years, it was Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, and Jack Nicklaus. This year, with Arnie no longer bodily present, Tom Watson filled in. The tradition of the Masters is captured in this connection with the heritage of Bobby Jones’ vision. After the three hit their drives, the Chairman of Augusta National declares loudly that this particular year of the Masters has begun.
The tournament consists of four rounds played on Thursday ending on Sunday. Thursday and Friday always seem a bit chaotic as new players are finding their way, while the old guys are reminiscing and enjoing the stroll through the magnolias. The eighty-nine golfers are vying to “make the cut”, which includes the top fifty players, including those that are tied. Therefore, no one knows what “the cut line” will be as it is determined by the play of the field, and often “moves” throughout the day on Friday. This was particularly true this year with the high winds that rocketed through the stately hardwoods of Augusta National. Those who don’t “make the cut” are headed home, hoping and praying for another chance in the proverbial “next year”.
Saturday is called “moving day” as golfers typically will shoot some low scores, advancing themselves in the rankings, while others find trouble, mental lapses due to nerves, and their movement is downward. The pressure is starting to build, and some are able to step up their game while others fold.
It is said that the Masters begins on the back nine holes on Sunday. The holes on the back nine are particularly treacherous with water hazards lurking to grab an errant shot. But they are also alluring as two reachable par 5’s give a seductive risk/reward ratio, tempting the player to “go for it.” One player in this year’s tournament described himself as “greedy”, trying to take on too many risks which cost him dearly. Still other players who take the risk, gamble, and succeed are hailed as heroes. Veterans of past Masters know when to “go” and when to play safe. One player noted that the key to the back nine is to know “where to miss” so that you have a chance to recover.
This is why I think golf has such a wide appeal as it mimics life, as we must discern how to live well and smart, and the hard reality of having to play the ball as it lies, that is, where you hit it. The bad breaks happen, like Max Homa’s shot on the par 3 twelvth, took a bad hop back into the bushes and may have cost him the tournament. After the round, he responded to his feelings, “It’s not fair.”. Just like life, bad hops happen. But, lucky bounces do as well. Playing through the vicissitudes of golf and life are just part of the game. I feel fortunate to have received some life training in the game of golf, competitively and casually. Hard works pays off. Keep your concentration. Don’t fixate on a bad shot. Recovery is part of the game. Center. Breathe. Enjoy. And Walter Hagen’s quote, “Don’t forget to smell the flowers!”.
This year’s Masters experience was a gift that I gave to myself. I watched the previews on the Golf Channel. I watched the live golf on ESPN on Thursday and Friday, and CBS on Saturday and Sunday. Jim Nantz, Trevor Immelman, with on-course Dottie Pepper gave the usual welll-tuned commentary. And of course, the inimitable Vern Lunquist on #16 completed his storied career of making just the right calls. It was not disappointing. I can’t wait for next year as I remember watching the Masters with my dad, taking my son and daughter, sharing such special moments with friends at this holy site. Can someone get me a pimento cheese sandwich, please?
South of God 